


save the one in front of you

by onekisstotakewithme



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-World War II, Pre-Canon, TW: Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/pseuds/onekisstotakewithme
Summary: “Save the one in front of you,” they'd told her at the field hospital.“And if I can't?”“Then you move on to the next one.”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	save the one in front of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_raven/gifts), [daylight_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylight_angel/gifts).



> Thanks to Blue for the beta ♥  
> ~  
> TW: aftermath of suicide

The kid comes into the ER at 1:34 AM.

Bigelow doesn't look at his face, too focused on the angry slashes on each wrist, still bleeding enough that the smell of iron hangs heavy in the air, so that it lingers in the back of her throat. 

The doctors are shouting over her head, and the wheel of the gurney squeaks in protest, and the kid makes a sound of anguish (anguish gushes forth in spurts with him, mixed with the precious blood spilling from his veins), and she makes the mistake of looking up at his face. 

_Oh God_ , she thinks. _Oh God, he can't be more than fifteen._

His eyes flutter open for a second and meets hers, deeply accusatory, even resentful, and then they're closed again.

At 1:46 AM, the time of death is called, and Bigelow watches as they pull the sheet over his face. 

He is fifteen.

And barefoot. 

His name is Kent. 

It always shocks her when a death gets to her. 

It's just death after all. People die suddenly and violently, and shoot at each other here and overseas. 

She likes to think that she's been numbed to the sting of death, can barely count on one hand the number of patients she's cried for. 

_(“Save the one in front of you,” they'd told her at the field hospital._

_“And if I can't?”_

_“Then you move on to the next one.”)_

She cries for Kent in an empty supply closet, the way she cried for the boy at Normandy, the one who'd looked like her little brother under his freckles, and the burn victim who had cried in her arms and called her “mom”.

She's numb to death until she isn't, when certain cases pull away the professional mask and leave her bleeding for them. 

“Save the one in front of you."

It's that easy, it's that hard. 

The door to the supply room opens, and Bigelow is quick to wipe her eyes on her arm, trying to muster up whatever professionalism she still has left.

There's a doctor standing there, peering down at her from behind his glasses. “Are you alright, Nurse?”

“I'm fine,” she tells him, standing up. “Perfectly fine. I was in here getting supplies.”

It's bold to lie to a doctor, but he smiles, weary and worn, somehow young and old at the same time (it's a look she's familiar with, a paradox of how people can be ancient and innocent at the same time). “I hope you found what you're looking for?”

She smiles too at this, more by reflex than anything. “I haven't yet.”

“Maybe I can help?”

She would love nothing more than to give up the charade of normality, to forget who she is and what her job is, for even a second. “I lost a patient.”

He nods. “And you thought you might nip over to supply to find another?”

She laughs, shocked at the hysterical edge to it. “If it were that easy…”

“What happened?”

“He- he came in with his wrists slashed. He'd hit arteries on both sides,” she says, sitting back down. “There was nothing we could do.”

It's a relief to admit it, lifts some of the weight that lies heavy in her chest. 

He nods. “You couldn't save him?”

“He shouldn't have even been brought in,” she says softly. “He wanted to be gone and he succeeded. But he- he-” Her eyes fill with tears and she turns away in shame. 

“That sounds rough,” he says in sympathy. 

“I've seen worse.” The reaction is automatic. 

He laughs. “I can tell.”

She sighs. “They told me… when I was in France, in the war… to save the person in front of you. And if you can't do that, move on to the next person and save _them_.”

He nods. “Sound advice to follow.”

“Easier said than done,” she replies, stretching and checking her watch. 

_2:01 AM_

“Ought to teach that kinda thing in medical school,” the doctor says. 

“It's more of a field medicine doctrine,” she says, stretching her feet out in front of her, ignoring the blood splattered across the tops. “Sort of a… a meat grinder principle.”

He eyes her. “Seen a lot of meat grinder hospitals?”

“More than I'd like to.”

“How's this one rank?”

“It's better than a field hospital,” she says. “Mostly because it's not in a field.”

“A bonus,” he says, and looks like he's ready to say more but the door to the supply closet opens to reveal a very harried Nurse Carson. “Bigelow, where the hell have you b- oh. Hello Doctor..”

“It's not her fault, Nurse. I had her distracted.”

“Well, we've got a bigger distraction. There's a woman in labour in the ER.”

Bigelow jumps up. “Can we move her?”

“No, it's not safe. Contractions are too close together.”

“And the obstetrician?”

Carson shakes her head, and the harried look makes sense now. “No one can reach him, and there's been another shooting downtown, so all the other doctors are busy.”

“So it's just us,” the doctor says with a nod. “I see.”

“Ever had a baby before?” Bigelow asks him and he laughs. 

“Once or twice. You?”

She nods. “I have.”

He holds open the door. “In that case, it's showtime.”

Bigelow follows him out the door, heart beating fast in her chest, because she's used to death.

She's not so used to life.

At 2:23 AM, she and the doctor hold a new little life in their hands, and she nearly cries for the joy of someone untouched by tragedy ( _and where is Kent’s mother tonight?_ she wonders) 

And the doctor smiles at her, exhaustion written into every line in his young-old face. “I know a place down the street that makes great eggs.”

“I can live with eggs.” And she can't help but grin. “But I don’t like eating breakfast with strangers.”

“Call me Steve,” he says, grinning at her over the baby’s head. “I’d shake your hand but mine are a little full.”

“Peggy.”

And there's a baby crying between them, and Peggy still smells of death, but she’s never felt more alive.


End file.
